The hedger’s Apprentice. He had out of door cheeks and a frayed woollen hat, on a squat bullish torso of muscle of fat. He tossed me his jacket to hang on a tree, with the air of a man he was rumoured to be. Stanley built hedges on waysides and farms, with a shovel, a hammer, his hands and his arms. For miles beyond measure of rural terrain, meandering monuments carried his name. Now a watched as he sorted through grounders and scale, then the long Cornish shovel was sunk to the blade, as slowly but surly foundation were laid. Here’ give me a hand boy! I leapt to my feet, he grinned at a frame with more mustard than meat, as I glanced at his fingers of mammoth mankind, goliath and David came to mind. The size of the grounders defied our embrace, but he showed how to wedge them and rock them in place. With each one persuaded and lectured in turn, as though they were children reluctant to learn. I heaved and I struggled as one of the team, and tried hard to merit my mentor’s esteem. It made little difference as Stanley could tell, but still, when he grunted I grunted as well. At crowst time he handed me tea from his flask, as I sat in his shadow, he warmed to the task. “Take a pride boy” he said, put your signature on it! It will last you a lifetime and live when your gone! I could see what he meant when our labours resumed, as row upon row we precisely entombed. And when the last crownings were there to be made, he paused and stepped backwards then passed me the spade. Now and then, I’ll be found in the late evening sun, where that hedge stands as straight as the day it was done. And it bears no inscription, nor credit nor sign, but it needs no caption it’s Stanley’s and mine.
This is fabulous, Will. Very inspiring stuff. Definitely going to visit Kerdroya soon
Great video Will, thanks for sharing it. Good meeting up with you at the opening last September. All the best Paul
The hedger’s
Apprentice.
He had out of door cheeks and a frayed woollen hat, on a squat bullish torso of muscle of fat. He tossed me his jacket to hang on a tree, with the air of a man he was rumoured to be.
Stanley built hedges on waysides and farms, with a shovel, a hammer, his hands and his arms. For miles beyond measure of rural terrain, meandering monuments carried his name.
Now a watched as he sorted through grounders and scale, then the long Cornish shovel was sunk to the blade, as slowly but surly foundation were laid.
Here’ give me a hand boy! I leapt to my feet, he grinned at a frame with more mustard than meat, as I glanced at his fingers of mammoth mankind, goliath and David came to mind.
The size of the grounders defied our embrace, but he showed how to wedge them and rock them in place. With each one persuaded and lectured in turn, as though they were children reluctant to learn.
I heaved and I struggled as one of the team, and tried hard to merit my mentor’s esteem. It made little difference as Stanley could tell, but still, when he grunted I grunted as well.
At crowst time he handed me tea from his flask, as I sat in his shadow, he warmed to the task. “Take a pride boy” he said, put your signature on it! It will last you a lifetime and live when your gone!
I could see what he meant when our labours resumed, as row upon row we precisely entombed.
And when the last crownings were there to be made, he paused and stepped backwards then passed me the spade.
Now and then, I’ll be found in the late evening sun, where that hedge stands as straight as the day it was done. And it bears no inscription, nor credit nor sign, but it needs no caption it’s
Stanley’s and mine.